Days like this are rare.
I have always thought that the clouds were bluest in Lucena. Especially during summer. I was marvelling at them earlier while I was riding the jeep going to the Lucban terminal. The streets are now filled with seemingly happy, jovial people. Now, they can get out of their dreary houses because they think that today (finally) Jesus has risen from the dead (big whoop).
I was on my way to Lucban to visit my aunt. Old Miss Havisham, all 81 years of her. She has this large, hopelessly cluttered house in Lucban (To my 'romantic' mind, it looks a little like the rundown heap of a mansion in Great Expectations. Paradiso Perduto.). She lives with a 50-year old housekeeper. I can see them now: champaigne in the morning, parties at night,young men walking around in thongs. Yep, it never gets boring.
Every Easter, many adventurous souls of Tayabas and Lucban, Quezon line up outside their houses, take off their shirts and , armed with buckets of water and gaily-colored hoses, splash/ throw water at the unlucky vehicles that pass by. The goal is to get someone/ anyone wet.
We love that tradition. I don't know if it has anything to do with the Bible and I can truly say that I don't really care. See, traditions should be like that- something that you do every year to show how happy you are that inspite of all the shitty things that are happening around you, you're still breathing.
So, there we were, riding in that unusually large jeep to Lucban. Everyone was talking and laughing. And I didn't know who the hell they all were. We didn't bother with niceties like getting numbers or names. Country folk don't do that. Not that we're completely uncivilized. It's just that sometimes, you don't really have to care about who a person is or what he does or where he came from. Pardon me if I sound like a total hick, but there is such a thing as an easy acceptance, a recognition that the person is there, existing. And that is enough for that particular moment.
If you've been 'citified' and you've mistakenly wandered in a particular province, you will find that the laughter that you'll be hearing is different. Unadulterated laughter, laced with a gratefulness that you can only hear from very young children. I think if you've stayed in the country long enough, part of your innocence will always be preserved. You can hear that in the people's laughter.
Besides, my father always encouraged me to talk with strangers. You know the silly parent code: "Don't talk to strangers." My father says that if you don't try to listen and talk with the people other than the ones you're used to, how can you possibly learn ANYTHING new? So I like talking with cab drivers, ice cream vendors, fisherfolk. But not all the time. Sometimes, I revert to my being hoity-toity and refuse to talk to anyone. I'm not Miss Sunshine all year round, you know.
So there I was, chatting up a storm with the manicurista seated beside me when we arrived in Lucban. Lucban is the quaintest of cities, with very small streets. Just to give you an idea: there are no real sidewalks. Some buildings are old and some Spanish houses are still standing. There is a coffee shop, a few restaurants, lots of panciterias. But during the San Isidro festival, tourists flock to this small town, sightseeing. They see the all the trimmings, thinking that this is how the town looks like during normal days. They're missing a lot.
Finally. Paradiso Perduto. Tita Magdalena is the last survivor of the old Lucena Ravidas. She never married. There is a rumor that she was spurned by a lover when she was younger. This is because one night, when the man was serenading her under her window, Lolo (enraged because he was awakened) threw a pail of urine onto the hapless lover. Who'd like an in-law like that? But I don't believe that silly story. Probably just my father, waxing romantic. (what's so romantic about a pail of urine? hahaha)
During the Japanese invasion, my father's family fled to the mountains, taking whatever they could with them. Since food was scarce, they kept the food hidden for future use. Tita actually carries on that practice till this day. Papa thinks the experience terrorized her so much that even if the war was over, she always wanted to be prepared. She keeps molding bread, old chips, rotten bananas in containers hidden in various parts of the house. Her version of the stink bomb.
She was sleeping upstairs so I woke her up. She stared at me for a moment and said, "I have always been dreaming of you." Then we laughed and talked for hours. I had to go home at 3pm because anthony was there waiting for me.
I can't believe this is my last day in the country.
I have always thought that the clouds were bluest in Lucena. Especially during summer. I was marvelling at them earlier while I was riding the jeep going to the Lucban terminal. The streets are now filled with seemingly happy, jovial people. Now, they can get out of their dreary houses because they think that today (finally) Jesus has risen from the dead (big whoop).
I was on my way to Lucban to visit my aunt. Old Miss Havisham, all 81 years of her. She has this large, hopelessly cluttered house in Lucban (To my 'romantic' mind, it looks a little like the rundown heap of a mansion in Great Expectations. Paradiso Perduto.). She lives with a 50-year old housekeeper. I can see them now: champaigne in the morning, parties at night,young men walking around in thongs. Yep, it never gets boring.
Every Easter, many adventurous souls of Tayabas and Lucban, Quezon line up outside their houses, take off their shirts and , armed with buckets of water and gaily-colored hoses, splash/ throw water at the unlucky vehicles that pass by. The goal is to get someone/ anyone wet.
We love that tradition. I don't know if it has anything to do with the Bible and I can truly say that I don't really care. See, traditions should be like that- something that you do every year to show how happy you are that inspite of all the shitty things that are happening around you, you're still breathing.
So, there we were, riding in that unusually large jeep to Lucban. Everyone was talking and laughing. And I didn't know who the hell they all were. We didn't bother with niceties like getting numbers or names. Country folk don't do that. Not that we're completely uncivilized. It's just that sometimes, you don't really have to care about who a person is or what he does or where he came from. Pardon me if I sound like a total hick, but there is such a thing as an easy acceptance, a recognition that the person is there, existing. And that is enough for that particular moment.
If you've been 'citified' and you've mistakenly wandered in a particular province, you will find that the laughter that you'll be hearing is different. Unadulterated laughter, laced with a gratefulness that you can only hear from very young children. I think if you've stayed in the country long enough, part of your innocence will always be preserved. You can hear that in the people's laughter.
Besides, my father always encouraged me to talk with strangers. You know the silly parent code: "Don't talk to strangers." My father says that if you don't try to listen and talk with the people other than the ones you're used to, how can you possibly learn ANYTHING new? So I like talking with cab drivers, ice cream vendors, fisherfolk. But not all the time. Sometimes, I revert to my being hoity-toity and refuse to talk to anyone. I'm not Miss Sunshine all year round, you know.
So there I was, chatting up a storm with the manicurista seated beside me when we arrived in Lucban. Lucban is the quaintest of cities, with very small streets. Just to give you an idea: there are no real sidewalks. Some buildings are old and some Spanish houses are still standing. There is a coffee shop, a few restaurants, lots of panciterias. But during the San Isidro festival, tourists flock to this small town, sightseeing. They see the all the trimmings, thinking that this is how the town looks like during normal days. They're missing a lot.
Finally. Paradiso Perduto. Tita Magdalena is the last survivor of the old Lucena Ravidas. She never married. There is a rumor that she was spurned by a lover when she was younger. This is because one night, when the man was serenading her under her window, Lolo (enraged because he was awakened) threw a pail of urine onto the hapless lover. Who'd like an in-law like that? But I don't believe that silly story. Probably just my father, waxing romantic. (what's so romantic about a pail of urine? hahaha)
During the Japanese invasion, my father's family fled to the mountains, taking whatever they could with them. Since food was scarce, they kept the food hidden for future use. Tita actually carries on that practice till this day. Papa thinks the experience terrorized her so much that even if the war was over, she always wanted to be prepared. She keeps molding bread, old chips, rotten bananas in containers hidden in various parts of the house. Her version of the stink bomb.
She was sleeping upstairs so I woke her up. She stared at me for a moment and said, "I have always been dreaming of you." Then we laughed and talked for hours. I had to go home at 3pm because anthony was there waiting for me.
I can't believe this is my last day in the country.
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